“I like you this way,” he murmured as his teeth raked over her neck. “Nude except for your jewels, like a sinful queen.”
She shivered again, and once more, it had nothing to do with being chilled. “Oh.”
He nuzzled her ear. “I want you on my bed, naked and waiting for me.”
Somehow, she found the strength to walk to his bed and drape herself upon it as he had asked. Beneath the scrutiny of his dark, heated gaze, she was aflame. She felt, for the first time, truly free. Aware of her independence from her husband’s rule. At liberty to do what she pleased, with whomever she desired.
And now, the man she desired was watching her with an expression that said he wanted to devour her. Watching her as he removed his boots and strode toward the end of the bed. She was acutely aware of every sensation—the feather pillows at her back, the soft fabric of the counterpane, the thud of her own heartbeat, the languorous heat sliding through her, the wetness between her thighs.
“I like the way you look here better,” he declared. “Take down your hair for me.”
The command in his voice made her hungrier for him. She liked being his woman. Liked being Mira.
This is only temporary, warned the voice within.You cannot continue seeing this man. Scandal will inevitably follow.
But she ignored the voice, reaching for the pins in her hair. One by one, she plucked them free, tossing them to the floor as she went. Locks fell around her shoulders, down her back.
“Yes,” he said, his voice husky. “Christ, your hair is beautiful. It is like flame. But then, so are you.”
“How can I be like flame?” she dared to ask, mesmerized by the unabashed hunger in his countenance, the way he consumed her with his stare.
“Flame is beautiful.” His fingers were on the fall of his trousers, undoing buttons from their moorings now. “It is necessary for life, yet dangerous. Watch its beauty from afar, hastily run your finger through it and you will be unscathed, but if you linger too long, you will be burned.”
“I shall not burn you,” she whispered, watching as he lowered his trousers and his manhood sprang forth, stiff and long and thick.
“Do you promise?”
She tossed the last pin from her hair. “I promise.”
He joined her on the bed, his warmth and strength pinning her there. She caught his face in her hands and brought his lips to hers for a kiss that quickly deepened, growing carnal. His fingers dipped between their bodies, and she could not contain her moan when he found that same, sensitive flesh, stroking her with expert precision.
“Christ, Mira. You’re so wet and ready for me, aren’t you?”
“Always.” It was the truth. No sense in hiding it; his fingers were on her, knowing. She did not think she could ever get enough of this man. Did not think there would ever come a day when he did not bring her to her knees with wanting him.
Her hips jerked, seeking more. Her fingers tunneled through his hair.
He toyed with her, stroking, circling the bud with confident caresses that brought her easily near to the edge. But just when she thought she might come entirely undone, he retreated, his touch gliding lower. Parting her folds before delving into her aching center.
Two fingers, then a third. He sucked on her throat, his rigid cock pressed to her hip as he pleasured her, reaching an incredibly sensitized place. So sensitive, the lines between pleasure and pain seemed to blur. But still, she wanted more. Wantonly, she planted her heels on the counterpane and surged upward, taking those fingers deeper still.
He kissed a path to her breasts, then took a nipple in his mouth and sucked hard. His thumb found the bud of her sex, swirling over it and heightening her desperation. He flicked his tongue over the peak of her breast, then gently bit as he thrust his fingers in and out of her, thumb working, rotating, massaging.
She cried out, body convulsing, channel tightening on him. Bliss hit her with such force that tiny black stars speckled her vision. But just when she thought she could not bear any more, he kissed lower, fingers still buried within her. Kissed down her stomach, all the way to her mound. When his lips replaced his thumb, all the air fled her lungs.
It was as if he was intent upon taking her to the point of mindlessness. But after having spent all her life in the dearth of desire, beneath the sovereignty of a man who had never cared if she found any pleasure at all in the act of lovemaking, she could not say she minded. Damian Winter was everything she could have wanted in a lover and more than she had imagined.
He licked and sucked, his wicked tongue traveling over her most intimate flesh as his long fingers stretched and slid, bringing her once more to the brink. As he gently nibbled on her and crooked his fingers, she came apart. Wildly. Splendidly.
A rush of wetness flooded from her, and she shook and writhed and gasped. It was as if her entire being had seized. As if she were dipped in gold and flame. She felt every bit the sinful queen he had told her she resembled. He made her feel that way. He made her feel as if she were worthy of pleasure, of his regard. Made her feel as if he worshiped her body.
He stayed with her as the last waves of pleasure faded, before he flipped to his back, pulling her with him so that she was astride his big body, her hips on either side of his. His thick cock jutted between them, nestled against her aching folds.
She stared down at Damian, her palms flattened on his chest as she sought purchase in her precarious new position atop him. And she found she rather enjoyed this position of power.
“I want you to ride me, love,” he said. “You control the lovemaking. I am all yours.”
All yours.
